


The Sun Restores the Roses

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, Sad Ending, Sorry guys, when it's Oberyn what else can it be?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2091048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willas and Oberyn strike up an unlikely friendship, and something more, after Willas is wounded in a tourney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Restores the Roses

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of the LJ got_exchange and I was lucky enough to get to write this story for my dear friend Nana!
> 
> I took liberties with the timeline because these early events, including Willas’ birth year, are not explicitly stated in the text.
> 
> All my thanks to CommaSplice for the (always excellent) beta, and to starsunk for (always patiently) listening to my crazy brainstorming.

**287 AC**  
  
  
To the Most Honorable Willas of House Tyrell, may it grow strong forever,  
  
  
The maester of Dorne who has been caring for you said you may not mind a raven from me; from Oberyn Nymeros Martell, the man whom you so gallantly faced down — a lad of your age — in the most recent tourney.  
  
  
I shall never again be able to enter the lists with such a light heart, remembering how your horse screamed as he fell; and how you, most valiant son of Tyrell, never did, but lay pale and broken beneath — I cannot bear it.  
  
  
If you do not throw this poor missive into the fire upon seeing the seal of the speared sun, you would make a guilty man very happy with a returned word.  
  
  
I await news of your recovery.  
  
  
Truly,  
Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Prince of Sunspear, Dorne  
  
  
  
My dear prince,  
  
  
Don’t be silly. There is nothing to feel guilty about — a stroke of bad luck, that’s all. Your maester has taken very good care of me, though I must needs warn him about adding too many spices to my wine. I have never known how you Dornish stand it, but that’s the beauty of the wide world. I am sending your maester back to you in care of this raven as the Highgarden maester, Lomys, has now taken over and the two don’t seem to want to be in the same room. Truth be told I prefer yours, but I can’t very well say that to my lord father, can I?  
  
  
I regret this is so short, but Maester Lomys has arrived to set a stray bone in my ankle, and I presume that will require all my attention for the foreseeable.  
  
  
Yours, Willas Tyrell  
  
  
  
Most valiant Tyrell,  
  
  
I was so gladdened and honored to receive your missive, although much distressed to read of further damage to your person. My family refuses to place the blame for your bodily harm where it belongs, properly on myself or on fickle fate. Instead, they dishonor your lord father in saying you were too young to participate in a tourney — but if you yourself do not hold ill will against me, then I am exonerated.  
  
  
What do you do to amuse yourself whilst you convalesce? Your charming brothers and sister, I presume, spend their days in encouraging your good humor and in finding pleasing diversions for you. I know they are but young, but they love you well; your brother Garlan was almost as pale as yourself when you fell, and Loras and Margaery, small as they are, clung to each other with horror in their eyes.  
  
  
Why must I insist upon reliving that terrible hour? Please forgive me, but it gnaws at my soul. I take solace in watching mine own horses gallop the sands of Dorne, animals which I have bred for speed and beauty racing across the land, both shimmering with heat and life.  
  
  
Yours most truly,  
Oberyn Nymeros Martell  
  
  
  
O kind one,  
  
  
Forgive me again! I sent the last raven so quickly I had forgotten you may despise every mention of horses. I am a fool,  
  
  
O. Martell  
  
  
  
My dear prince,  
  
  
Please don’t worry yourself! I have long been interested in the breeding of horseflesh, and now that I am unable to ride, I may yet take up this diversion along with my current ones of breeding dogs and hawks for long-distance hunting. If you would like to share any particular advice on horses, please do so. Your description of them running across the Dornish sands was quite bewitching in its beauty and evocation.  
  
  
Yes; Garlan, Loras and especially little Margaery are keeping me in the highest spirits they can. Maester Lomys is doing his best, but it will merely take time before I am no longer in pain and can attempt to walk again — however, he says I shall never walk without a crutch. I know your father must needs use a chair, and the thought of his stoic bearing in spite of his pain impresses me greatly; that, and your cheering correspondence, if I may be so forward.  
  
  
I am afraid the above is the first time I have ever attempted a semicolon. I imagine your lyrical writing also has also impressed me, and I hope I did it justice.  
  
  
Very truly,  
Willas Tyrell  
  
  
  
Kindest knight of Tyrell,  
  
  
I am so relieved that my note did not offend thee. I did worry. Instead, you are stirred by the very creature that you could despise as a cause of your woe! Such is the evidence of your open heart. These valiant beasts can fight so well, and yet be such a comfort to a sore soul, as I have learned many a time. As for horseflesh I prefer to choose my own stud, at least, and not allow any attendants, farriers or merchant-breeders to do so for me. The mare is somewhat less important in breeding, as the tremendous masculinity of a truly fine gentleman horse will overcome any weakness in the mare when the foals bear out. Kindly tell me of your stock at Highgarden, and I will advise you as though I were there, where I wish most fervently I could be. Alas, I must merely use the quill and the raven, for now.  
  
  
Your use of the aforementioned punctuation was beautiful, as was your sentiment.  
  
  
I remain,  
  
  
Yours very truly and most affectionately,  
Oberyn Nymeros Martell  
  
  
  
My dear prince,  
  
  
I am stirred, as you put it, by more than one creature that I could, but do not, despise as a cause of my woe.  
  
  
If it please you, call me Willas. I am no knight of Tyrell, valiant or otherwise, a fact I have been firmly educated upon today. Instead, I am to be a Prince of Thorns.  
  
  
I sit in sore need of a comfort to my soul, as my grandmother has been in my ear all day telling me of my new duties to the house. Now that I'm no longer a threat on the battlefield, she would prefer me a crippled, male version of herself, a threat only in the solar and at council.  
  
  
This is never what was intended for me. If I cannot fight or ride, I would like to at least live in relative peace, with my horses and my hawks and my dogs. Even this is lost to me now and I must play these court games.  
  
  
Forgive the sullen tone of this raven. I assure you I will feel better on the morrow.  
  
  
Yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
Mildest and most gracious Willas,  
  
  
It strikes me as disrespectful to call you by your first name, but it was your request, and I will comply and ask that you also call me Oberyn.  
  
  
I am so sorry the estimable Lady Tyrell is haranguing you, and coercing or outright ordering you into a role to which you do not feel yourself suited. Allow me to propose, however, that you may possess more of a mind for politics and diplomacy than you think. I can tell by the most treasured ravens to myself that you are a young man of decency, intelligence, and tact; furthermore, your forthright means of expressing your thoughts is a talent sorely needed in any council, where men and women of too many words and not enough thoughts so often hold sway. I believe you would be an artful asset to House Tyrell not seen in many generations: your mind if not your legs are dexterous, and your spirit pure. I have sat in many a long hall, and many a solar, and fought upon many a battlefield. There are fewer men more honorable that I have met than Willas Tyrell.  
  
  
I am rarely at a loss for something to say, but your first words in your most recent correspondence have rendered me so ... dare I imagine you mean what it appears you mean?  
  
  
Most truly, most hopefully yours,  
Oberyn  
  
  
  
Dear Oberyn,  
  
  
Yes, and what a relief to finally be able to write it. These last few moons, though filled with pain and medicine and wretched idleness, have been some of my happiest because I have learned, through your kindness to me, that I may yet survive this.  
  
  
Thank you for your confidence in my diplomatic abilities. My grandmother seems to think the same; and so I shall try.  
  
  
Yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
~~  
  
  
  
 **288 AC**  
  
  
Most esteemed one,  
  
  
How does it fare with your new stock of horses? The roan of which you wrote sounds as though he will make a fine stud, and as for your crop of mares I can only imagine their competitions to obtain his attention.  
  
  
I myself am adding to my stock of mares; if you have not heard, my Ellaria has given me a new daughter, feisty as any purebred. We have named her Obella. She joins her half-sisters and sisters in making my life one full of joy.  
  
  
As does our continuing correspondence, my prince of Highgarden.  
  
  
Yours as ever,  
Oberyn  
  
  
  
Dear Oberyn,  
  
  
The horses fare well, and you have the right of it, two mares have come to teeth and snarls over the handsome roan. As for the foals, we shall see what we shall see.  
  
  
I send my best wishes on the birth of your daughter. Obella is a beautiful name, so close to your own and to Ellaria’s.  
  
  
You speak so feelingly of your daughters. I wonder if I will ever enjoy a woman’s company enough to want children, and all that accompanies that, with her. My family talks of marrying me to the daughter of a lord who wouldn’t mind a cripple, and I do not know if I could do it.  
  
  
When it comes to that, I don’t know how you do it. You seem to love all equally and it astounds and perplexes me.  
  
  
Yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
Ah, dear Willas,  
  
  
You have the right of it: I love — and desire — equally among the two, man and woman … I cannot deny myself half the world’s pleasures. One sees animals, two hares perhaps, in love, in the pleasure of mating, and one does not know if they are man or woman. It does not matter to them, nor does it matter to me mine ownself. If a one takes hold of my heart, my fancy, then he does — or she does. Ellaria thinks as I do and that is something we hold in common, alone amidst many of our kin.  
  
  
Be not afraid to marry. A woman is a wondrous thing, dear Willas, and if you have the chance to wed and bed a lovely one then you must do so in my honor: hold her soft body, open her petals and make her blossom under your touch. Yes, a woman is a wondrous thing — but so is a man.  
  
  
Yours, Oberyn  
  
  
  
~~  
  
  
  
 **289 AC**  
  
  
Willas,  
   
I understand you are still corresponding with that snake of a Red Viper in Dorne. Please put an end to it. I would do so myself were I not stuck here in the Arbor drinking as much wine as my relations will pour down my throat. Never was a surname so apt.  
  
  
Your loving Grandmother  
  
  
  
Dearest Grandmother,  
  
  
Thank you for your kind interest, but I must decline your request.  
  
  
While I have quill to parchment, be made aware that in your absence I have given the title of Lord of Southshield to House Serry in return for ten percent more arms sworn to House Tyrell.  
  
  
Yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
Mace,  
  
  
Well, well. Contrary to your urgent report, it seems our Willas has been doing plenty else other than writing ravens to Oberyn Martell and breeding horse and hawk and hound. He appears to be learning faster than you ever did. Let him be — for now. But let us also find a suitable bride sooner rather than later.  
  
  
Your Mother  
  
  
  
~~  
  
  
  
 **294 AC**  
  
  
Dear Oberyn,  
  
  
My servants tell me you have had another daughter. My congratulations once more! Is your eldest still hoping to fight in a tourney? If she is, advise her from me to watch her footing on the dismount.  
  
  
Grandmother seems to believe I’m learning to talk sense to high lords and grand ladies. I think they just don’t see me as a threat because I am a cripple. But House Tyrell must take the advantages it can.  
  
  
The hawks are well, thank you for asking. One comes to me with a fresh kill each morning and night, dropping a rat in my chambers and then flying to my gloved arm, looking at me as if to say ‘Your thanks are insufficient, ser.’ His nest-brother is somewhat weaker, but Garlan encourages him and will not let me give up his case.  
  
  
Yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
My dear Willas,  
  
  
Our babe Loreza was born screaming and looking for all the world like my sister Elia — but then I sometimes cannot look at Loreza without remembering Elia and tears flood my eyes.  
  
  
You asked how I spend my days. I rarely leave Dorne; I spend many hours with my brother in closed council, and I make my plans. I write ravens to all corners, and then I write poems for my beloved daughters and to Ellaria. The flow of the words calms me, but I am rarely calm anymore. A storm is coming, dear Willas, and I am — yes — grateful that you are unable to leave Highgarden to become swept up in it. You may be spared, and that would be a joy to my troubled heart.  
  
  
Ever yours,  
Oberyn  
  
  
  
~~  
  
  
  
 **299 AC**  
  
  
Dear Oberyn,  
  
  
I suppose I should be heartbroken, but instead I am merely confused. My betrothed, Sansa Stark, has suddenly been married to another: the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. Sansa was very beautiful, they say — look, I talk about her as if she were dead. Well, she is dead to me, as she will never grace my halls. All is in chaos; my sister Margaery a widow at fourteen, my brother Loras even more so, though not in name. Wars in every corner, and here I sit still at Highgarden, becoming that creature I never wanted to be: a conciliator. I had hopes that a marriage to the Stark maiden could bring new life to my own, but that’s all over now.  
  
  
I heard she liked dogs. Margaery said she had been eager to meet my newest litter of hounds.  
  
  
Yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
Ah, Willas,  
  
  
When I heard of the girl’s marriage to the Imp, my heart sank — for you, and also for her, because her life will not be well worth living whilst in the hands of such as the Lannisters. Take some small comfort in knowing that Tyrion is the least evil of these; and yet, the Stark girl would have flourished among your flowers and your family. It was a dark day when she wed the Imp. I also am heartsore about the loss of Margaery’s lord and Loras’ companion. Renly seemed a lovely man, though very young and over-daring to name himself king, and he paid — by what sorcery or treachery we do not yet know. These games may be over sooner than you think, my dear prince of Highgarden.  
  
  
As ever yours,  
Oberyn  
  
  
  
~~  
  
  
  
 **300 AC**  
  
  
Dear Oberyn,  
  
  
My world darkens further; my sister is to marry that child-demon Joffrey Baratheon. Thanks to Sansa Stark, we all know what he is. My grandmother paces and plans, Loras spars with shadows, Garlan sits with his little wife and they clasp hands and pray. Margaery is clever and beautiful, but can she defend against a monster? I see fear even in her fearless eyes, though she says she will change him. She has the love of the people already. She feels sure she can win the heart of this beast, but I do not believe he has a heart to win.  
  
  
I fear all is lost, my prince. The stories of the winter and horrors in the North, the cruel fate of my sister, the dashing of so many hopes and lives in this war and I know from my work that it is not half over. I have only one hope left.  
  
  
Since you first knelt above me as I lay injured, your helm discarded and the sigil of Sunspear shining in my eyes, I have been unable to tear my thoughts from you for barely a moment. It has been years. I ache to see you, to speak to you and hear your voice, but I cannot leave Highgarden. It is as much because of House Tyrell as because of my leg.  
  
  
Sometimes I think I cannot go on.  
  
  
Yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
O dearest, dearest Willas,  
  
  
Your raven has rent me in two.  
  
  
I am attending, in my brother’s stead, this wretched farce of a wedding, and while there I may effect some business that I have long hoped for. I shall travel with Ellaria and my retinue to King’s Landing. When all is done, I shall take my best horse and ride the Roseroad through the fragrant orchards and vineyards of the Reach, and I shall come to Highgarden, pluck the reddest rose from thy royal gardens, and present it to thee.  
  
  
In haste, but devoted,  
Oberyn  
  
  
  
Dear Oberyn,  
  
  
Now that I know you are coming to me, I can do whatever I must to last until the day I see your face again.  
  
  
Fondly and steadfastly yours,  
Willas  
  
  
  
  
Willas of House Tyrell:  
  
  
I have only a moment to write. I am so horrified by the events in King’s Landing and even here in Dorne that I cannot let my daughters out of my sight for a moment.  
  
  
Be strong in his memory. He knew what you were capable of. He trusted you with so much of himself. Do not dismiss the importance of that. He loved you, you know.  
  
  
Yours in shared sorrow,  
Ellaria Sand  
  
  
  
The End


End file.
